


Thigmonasty

by extryn



Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Begging, Body Horror, Bondage, Bukkake, Carnivorous plant, Cock Bondage, Crack Treated Seriously, Crying, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Manipulation, Fear, Hand Jobs, Masturbation, Multiple Penetration, Near Death Experiences, Non-Consensual Groping, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Other, Parasites, Prostate Massage, Sounding, Strangulation, Tentacle Rape, The Doctor Has A Bad Day, Vines, Whump, Wilderness Survival, regeneration chicken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:42:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23474143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extryn/pseuds/extryn
Summary: ‘Please,’ the Doctor whispered, frozen to the spot, every centimetre of his skin taut and cloying. ‘Help me.’The Master’s face, so gleefully expressive, spared no moment for concern.(The Doctor has an unfortunate run-in with a carnivorous plant. The Master is there to lend a helping hand.)
Relationships: Fifth Doctor/The Master (Ainley)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 52





	Thigmonasty

**Author's Note:**

> This is seriously just a fic about Five getting molested by a man-eating plant while the Master cheerleads. There's a large helping of body horror, but I promise there's ~~no~~ very little gore. I'll chuck more warnings at the bottom for ya.
> 
> The inspiration is honestly just me exorcising a Very Bad, No Good Nightmare I had by plonking Five in it.

‘Please,’ the Doctor whispered, frozen to the spot, every centimetre of his skin taut and cloying. ‘Help me.’

The Master’s face, so gleefully expressive, spared no moment for concern. His eyebrows raised to frame a splutter of laughter, the crinkled corners of his eyes barely casting a glance over him. 

The Doctor didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare speak. He’d wasted time, so much time, pulling at them and cutting them and trying to outpace them, but they were like the hydra of myth; for every vine he managed to extricate himself from, two rose to take its place. 

Even the shudders of his breath incited them now, made them grow faster, wind tighter around his body. The more of his body that became ensnared in their web, the more keenly they sensed his movements. 

The vines were burrowing into his skin, little pseudopodia, his legs ringed with raw ligatures from where he’d tried to rip them off of him, a maddening sensation that begged him to scrub it off his skin and only the paralysis of fear allowed him to resist. 

The Master seemed content to do little but watch him. He’d observed with interest the way the Doctor’s haggard steps had thickened and branched the vines around his knees, burying him in overgrowth. There was none of the Doctor’s own terror mirrored in his eyes, which somehow managed to spark within him a righteous fury, the _idiocy_ of it. 

‘Oh, Doctor,’ the Master chuckled, ‘How the mighty have fallen.’

The Doctor said nothing, fighting to hold off a shudder, the urge to snap at him about the urgency of the situation. 

The Master drew himself closer. With the air of a scientist, he watched the vines dribble little feelers towards him, crawling over the earth to chase his footfalls. They were sluggish, retreating as his feet left the ground, uninterested in anything but their prey. 

‘Carnivorous plants,’ the Master mused. ‘What will be next, I wonder, quicksand? Perhaps a maliciously-placed banana peel.’

‘No–’ the Doctor said, and gasped involuntarily as the mass of vines sent more feelers creeping up his torso. His breaths came shallowly, as if he might stave them off longer, if only he could keep from needing air at all. He threw a hand up, unable to support himself much longer under the weight of the plant. The vines, already deeply embedded in his hands, dug their way through his dermis and sealed over his skin to the bark of a nearby tree. 

Unable to resist it, the horror permeating further through his stomach, the Doctor tore another fistful of them off his hand, and nearly cried out when the ends wriggled, proliferated, burrowed tiny, new tendrils into the raw flesh over his knuckles. 

‘I don’t know,’ he stuttered, forcing his voice quiet and clipped, hoping the Master might see it in his eyes: _I can’t stop this, I can’t stop it._

The Master gave little reaction except perhaps amusement to see the thing in action, and the Doctor almost thought to warn him. That it had only taken one foot, carelessly treading over the trip-wire roots, before it had taken hold of his ankle. That within hours, every attempt of his to remove, or kill, or even hold the plant at bay had only accelerated its progress. That now he could hardly talk without new vines creeping up his neck, coiling around the base of his chin. He didn’t want to know what might happen when they found his tongue.

Heedless, the Master found a bare spot of skin, hip exposed between his shirt and trousers, and stroked it experimentally. Minute, featherlike roots sprung out from nearby vines, sensing, tasting the motion, seething towards it. The Doctor watched him, eyes wide, knowing he must be calculating, testing. Learning how this _thing_ worked. It was pointless. The only thing either of them needed to know was that it did — and very soon, it would consume him whole. 

He might not die. He might regenerate. The vines would feed off it, spread uncontrolled from the intensity of the energy, seek it out from the core of his body as he reformed around them. And once that, too, became incompatible with life, it would happen again. And again. 

The Master flicked a fingernail against his hip, and the Doctor hissed as those tendrils swarmed over the area, thickening, twisting, adhering to skin. His very intake of breath sent the large, woody coil around his ribcage in motion. 

‘Exquisitely sensitive,’ the Master announced. ‘They must hunt through vibrations. Even the smallest movement, hmm, Doctor?’ 

He considered nodding. Didn’t know which would be worse; drawing them up the back of his neck, or speaking and having them continue their inexorable spread towards his throat. He let his exhale become a soft, strained admission: _‘Yes._ ’ 

The Master chuckled, bringing his face close to the knots of the Doctor’s clothes, his body. He blew, gently, and watched the vines squirm across the direction of his breath and wriggle over the Doctor’s right nipple. ‘It would be in your best interests to stay very, very still, then.’

As if he hadn’t realised that. Hours ago. Perhaps days, uselessly trying to locate his TARDIS in the labyrinthine sprawl of this planetary jungle. It might have even worked, had he learnt his lesson earlier and bought himself some time to think. Not anymore. Now his very breath was its own death sentence. Any moment, the tallest feelers would sense the currents of his breath and swarm up to asphyxiate him.

A dull thrum of dread marched alongside the horror, smothering him from the inside as the plant choked him from without. The Master had wished him dead for centuries, after all. What else could he have expected from him? _Mercy?_ Hardly.

He opened his mouth, abruptly unsure what words to shorten his time with. The sharp movement of neck and jaw brought another cold vine up to feel out the hollow of his throat, curling there, its branches writhing. The Doctor recoiled with a violent cry that split new growths across the length of his body. He seized himself from the tree, brought his other, equally-trapped hand up in defense, doubled over in agony as the new growth fed upon his broken skin. The younger flesh seeped through the weave of his clothes like sand and swelled, tearing the fabric, knotting it in the mass of skin and plant, a tourniquet absorbed by the bark of a tree.

Desperate, the Doctor fixed the Master with his gaze, wishing the Master would so much as glance at his mind, spare him the agony of hastening his own death.

Awed, but always scheming, the Master could still find the means to deliver a half-interested taunt. ‘Still the fool.’

‘I haven’t much time,’ the Doctor whispered. The inevitable thought spiralled beneath him. He begged for a quick death as fervently as he begged for some escape, and knew both to be nothing but desperate fantasies to soothe the terror of what was to come. Perhaps that was all. He’d simply not wanted to die alone.

At this, a broad, predatory smile slipped into its familiar guise on the Master’s face. He stood over the Doctor, relishing the pained hunch of the Doctor’s back, the inability to raise his head to the Master’s height, the strain of his muscles trying to hold the posture like a statue. 

The sudden glisten to the Master’s eyes was mirrored in the wetness of his tongue, darting from the corner of his lips. ‘We shall have to be very quick then, my dear Doctor.’

Measured with curiosity, the Master’s gloved hand traced the thick twist of a vine where it ran up the Doctor’s thigh, squeezing his knee into flexion and threatening to hobble him, if the Doctor weren’t already putting all his strength into resisting it. He could feel it thickening in response, impossibly tighter, cutting into the aching jelly of muscles already beyond their limits. The Master extricated his fingers from the smaller tendrils that had risen from the trunk to curl around him, too, and reached to cup the Doctor’s groin.

A new wave of adrenaline drenched him as if ice-water. Mute, the Doctor shook his head, the barest flick of his hair about his eyes. No. Surely not, not even _him_ —a mistake, a poorly-timed joke—

The Master felt out the soft weight of the Doctor’s genitals and squeezed. 

Even like this, trapped, helpless, the Doctor flinched, tugging himself against the Master’s insistent grip and causing his skin, quite literally, to crawl.

‘Don’t,’ the Doctor mumbled, anguished, ‘Please, don’t—’

He froze. Beside his ear, a tiny, hairlike tendril flickered, branching and spreading sluggishly across his cheekbone. It teetered there, and as the Master groped him more insistently, now, the harsh sniff of the Doctor’s breath enticed it to trickle towards his nose.

He met the Master’s eyes as they tracked its progress – he with horror, the Master with fascinated delight. The Master raised his eyebrows in expectation, and with deliberate, exacting precision, freed the Doctor’s soft cock from his trousers.

The smallest fibres of the plant, eager from the movement, seethed over the newly exposed skin like maggots on a corpse. They wriggled amongst themselves to form tiny roots, pressing into the very pores of the Doctor’s penis. He couldn’t help it; the feathery, stinging prickle as his skin was penetrated, the visual assault, the disbelief that the Master had done, _was_ doing this—

A scream tore from him, a half-second screech of horror, before the tendril around his face slithered to the corner of his mouth and slipped inside.

Sheer, piercing terror. Cold.

From a vague place, outside of his body, he understood the vine was burrowing into the hollow between his lower lip and his teeth. His gums. 

Things seemed very quiet in this place, the antechamber of death.

But the Doctor found he wasn’t dying, and his lungs were still breathing. His limbs were about to collapse under the strain, and he would be swallowed like a rat within a boa constrictor, and his animal body would not allow him to forget that, for as long as it forced him to survive.

Nor would the Master allow him to forget that he was naked, exposed. Thoughtless, he wove his hand between the coils enmeshing the Doctor’s legs, and took hold of his cock to stroke it. Drowned in adrenaline, the Doctor felt numb to it, until the vines began to thicken and weave under the movement of the Master’s hand, and he could no more easily ignore the rhythmic, textured pressure than he could his own fear.

Within moments, his body was responding to the stimulus. He was, he couldn’t— ‘ _No_ ,’ and as the vine slid inside his cheek and the Doctor’s tongue jumped to the back of his throat, an unintelligible ‘ _Please_ ,’ and the reckless, arrogant _imbecile_ , it had snared the Master, caught the base of his thumb and begun to coil around his wrist.

The Master, noticing this almost simultaneously, whipped his hand away – and almost succeeded in doing so. The vines had sewn themselves into his glove, clinging to him like velcro. Quicker-thinking than the Doctor had been, the Master slipped his fingers free of the glove with some effort, the vines swarming to devour the fabric as he pulled his hand free. 

He examined his bare fingers with a flare of discomfort, the broad grin across his face suddenly tight, jaw folded into an abrupt angle. Wiggling his fingers, he inspected them diligently, then reached inside his jacket to pull out another glove. Identical, black velvet, which he slid over his hand with the hypnotic elegance of muscle memory.

He imagined he could see the realisation dawning across the Master’s face, striking him like a dropped stone sounding the bottom of a well. The plant, coiled tight around the base of his cock, had finished devouring the Master’s glove. Finding nothing of use within it, the vines withdrew their hold from the fabric, spitting it out like the hull of a seed. The motion of them; cold, slick, writhing around the Doctor’s penis, encouraged him to become harder still.

The Master’s pupils were dilated, but the moist part of his mouth declared themselves as arousal, not fear. Adoration layered over his sneer, he took hold of the Doctor’s testicles, rolling and letting his thumb brush the vines above, making them tighten and squeeze in time with his hand. The sensation had no primacy over the violent ache of his muscles, aware that if he lost his footing now he’d never get back up, or the needle pricks of the vines creeping across his face and neck. There was no presence left to him, no thought beyond the primal imperative of his fear. Imprisoned by the futility of death, forced to endure the torture the Master was determined to inflict on him while the chance remained.

He’d ignored pain for so long that his body gave him no warning before it collapsed. He struck the ground roughly, the Master leaping aside. The plant broke his fall, and bruised and crushed on the rough, stony ground, it writhed over his joints to grow back tougher still – woody, stiff. The Doctor fought to make it to his knees, the weight and exhaustion near overwhelming, desperate not to be suffocated against the undergrowth. 

The Master’s laugh was high and melodious; the giggle of an excitable child. ‘Giving up so soon, Doctor?’

He’d gasped, reflexively, as he had fallen; the plant had curled around his tongue for a brief second, only the lubrication of his saliva allowing it to slip free. Now, head hanging, too heavy to lift, it slid out of him in a long, thick string. He was cripplingly aware of it striking the soil, the dark little bead spreading into the dirt. 

The Master crouched beside him, his hand now slipping into the twisted mess of the Doctor’s jacket. He fingered the length of a vine wrapped around the Doctor’s ribcage, following it to a nipple and thumbing it through his torn shirt. Deftly, he avoided the little feelers investigating his gloved hand, and reached inside the Doctor’s pocket to extract his sonic screwdriver.

Thick, a smear of vowels, the Doctor mouthed the words with agony: ‘ _I’ve tried_.’

He watched the Master consider it, thoughtfully running a finger along its length and tapping the tip. What little stupid, _stupid_ hope had remained within him evaporated as the Master pocketed it, and ran his eyes purposefully along the Doctor’s bound body.

The Master drew closer, swallowed, and smoothed a reverent palm down the Doctor’s side. He took care to press on the vines as he went, nimble and advancing just beyond their thrall, until he reached the Doctor’s rear. His hand, assessing as it stroked, might as well have been patting the flank of a horse.

The Master’s gloved fingers snaked between his legs and found him still, frighteningly, hard. The vines had choked off the base of his cock, trapping the blood within it: a dusky purple testament to the swollen hypersensitivity he felt as the Master rubbed harshly over the head. Unable to control himself, the Doctor hitched in a yelp, the vine in his mouth lengthening urgently to locate the source of the sound. As his tongue continued to evade it, it thickened in retaliation until the Doctor’s mouth became stretched around its root.

The Master drew back and, as if an afterthought, flicked between his balls. Then higher, as the plant followed his movements, encouraging it to curl around and bind them where they hung.

The Doctor breathed something around the cold, grassy weight in his mouth that might have been _stop, please stop,_ had his voice not been choked from him. 

As his cock throbbed, relentless under the hammering beat of his hearts, the vines responded in turn. They pulsed and tightened in time, stimulating him uncontrollably. Their smallest threads sought out the lines of his veins, tunneling just beneath his skin and making it visibly squirm; the Doctor couldn’t bear to look, couldn’t draw his eyes away, was too afraid to close them.

‘Why, anybody would think you were enjoying yourself, my dear Doctor,’ the Master smiled, the soft creases of his eyes at odds with the firm set of his brows, the hunger across his mouth. He withdrew the sonic screwdriver and fiddled with the setting, testing it against his inner wrist as he flicked through its frequencies.

Giddy relief flooded through the Doctor’s body, head to toe. His breath, hummingbird-quick and shallower still, slowed to a great heave. Perhaps it would buy him time. Bare minutes, he knew; the sonic couldn’t cut it all off, couldn’t pull the tiny seedlings from under his flesh, couldn’t kill it any faster than it grew back once enraged by damage. 

But the Master needed little more than seconds to execute a plan, and could adapt it in the face of failure in even less.

A breathless, exasperated smile tugged at the corner of the Doctor’s lips, no longer paying attention to the plant as it continued its path towards his respiratory passages. 

The Master circled behind him, hands planted on the Doctor’s buttocks, the cold line of the sonic trapped beneath his right palm, and the Doctor fought the urge to roll his eyes. Yes, he’d rather gotten the point. 

The strained fabric of his trousers tore as the Master shoved both thumbs right between his cheeks and through the other side. The Doctor urged to gasp, but found he couldn’t draw in more than a snatch of air around the edges of his mouth. His head shook of its own accord; a desperate, urgent jerk of his head stifled by the cords tightening around his neck. Recycled adrenaline spread like a sweat-stain through his exhausted body; a clammy, rank vapour in every muscle and organ. The sonic buzzed, muffled by the Master’s hand. The cool air tracing between his spread arse felt as sharp as a blade. 

He felt himself begging, struggling, so mindless with fear he no longer cared that he could hardly breathe, that his elbow was hyperextended so far it might break.

The Master’s calm concentration was almost otherworldly, a lifetime away, as he slipped the sonic into the knot of plant and clothing between the Doctor’s legs, anchored its tip at his perineum, and set it vibrating against him.

The Doctor jerked to dislodge it and found he was too tightly bound to even open his legs. Within seconds, the Master’s hand snaked away to permit the vines passage, enveloping the sonic within their mass.

Rippling surges of vibration travelled straight through his prostate, and the Doctor’s cock twitched automatically. The vines followed with programmed interest. They swarmed around the sonic, soulless, and then divided outwards; hoping to find ingress, unable to distinguish the vibration of the Doctor’s warm, animal flesh from the machine that drove it. 

The first tentative, curious tendril hesitated at the dip of his arsehole. Involuntarily, reflexively, he twitched away from the touch—and the plant thrust inside.

No instinct, no animal drive could be more powerful than the first: the Doctor shrieked, the noise broadening into a wail as it stretched around the vines in his mouth.

What had been a thin cord, pinching the rim of his arse, became a thick root as it discovered the epicentre of the vibrations lay just behind his inner walls. It swelled and contorted him from the inside, shoving at the fragile tissue—every breath now a scream, the Doctor biting into bitter, alkaloid flesh, falling heavily on his side, writhing against it, everything, even his own survival ceasing to matter, only to _get it off out of him please not this stopmakeitstopendit_ —

His stifled, animal howls stuttered off as the injured vine shot to the back of his throat, plastering itself there – he couldn’t stop himself gagging, retching, the smaller tendrils slipping into his oesophagus and closing his airway further, leaving nothing but thin whistles of air through his nose to sustain him. His body switched to bypass. He couldn’t stop it. 

Every voiceless scream, every agonal heave of breath only squeezed him tighter around the plant inside him. It fed off the pressure. Kept growing. Deeper, wider, the internal pressure relentless. Agony.

The Master’s breath was rough, a purr at the edges of his chuckle. The Doctor opened an eye and saw him—saw him _stimulating_ himself, rubbing the unmistakable outline of an erection through his breeches. The image branded itself into what was left of his sanity. The sensations – asphyxiation, fatigue, revulsion, his body stretched to the breaking point – lost themselves in each other, a muddy blur of pain. The Master pulled his sex free of his clothes, sighing as he did so. It stood engorged and stiff in his hand, a sight too surreal to be entirely comprehensible.

The reality of it all bore down on him. He watched the Master grip himself, stroking leisurely, and became transfixed by it; he felt the Master’s gaze tonguing his body, from his distorted face to the unnatural knots of his limbs; could almost touch the heat in the Master’s eyes as he lingered on the abortive jerks of the Doctor’s hips, his body trying to escape the invasion and only inviting it further. 

The awareness narrowed into a heavy, numb weight within his chest. The Doctor felt it rise up through the back of his spine, through his sinuses, burning the back of his eyes like poison.

He wept. The slow, empty seep of tears, at first. The Master’s lips parted at the sight of them, his eyes half-lidded. He released his cock long enough to crouch, his thumb brushing over the Doctor’s wet cheek – the sudden smell of sex, every sense heightened by fear. The Master’s hand hovered beside his rear, contemplative. A gloved finger traced around the ring of his arsehole, trying to hook a fingertip inside—he lurched from the Master, reaching the limits of bonds within centimetres, his cry of pain smothered.

Bored of this torment, the Master worked a finger between his legs, nudging the sonic up to meet the base of his penis. It wasn’t—he couldn’t—they were wriggling, swarming to the tip of his cock, painful and swollen, two little tendrils sliding through the scant layer of precome and branching _inside_ , inside him. 

He sobbed, silent hitches that throbbed pain through his arse, his limbs, his neck – now forced into a vicious bend – tears squeezing free from his eyes, shut tight as a vise, terrified that they too might otherwise be engulfed. The remainder were forced retrograde, dripping from his nose instead of his cheeks. Vines carved their way through one nostril, seeking the sweet salt of his tears, the harsh drag of his sobs. They followed the passage to the back of his throat, meeting the ones in his mouth there, intertwining, burrowing into his mucosa, tugging his head further back.

There was no more breath after that.

The Master was stroking himself faster, thumb closed over the head of his cock. He seemed to be working his hand in time to the Doctor’s sobs, letting a high-pitched groan join the sounds of the Doctor’s own heartsbeat battering his eardrums and the slap of flesh-on-flesh. 

The Doctor could feel the plant curling its way along his urethra. His face felt as full as his arse, his cock, as he cried, begging for this to be over with all remaining thought. The hypoxia was setting in, the edges of the world fading to a whine. The vines relentlessly chased the vibrations of the sonic, plunging deeper towards his bladder, finding his prostate and trying to meet the ones massaging it from the other side. It felt—it couldn’t, surely, but it did—trapped, internally, bound and stretched and _dying_ , his orgasm built from nowhere like a sandcastle without water. 

It crested within painful, overstimulated seconds and bled out from him, a smarting throb or two of come. The Doctor sagged, the pain becoming distant, that light—that awful light—finding every break in his skin and bubbling beneath it; the promise, the beginning.

His leg suddenly fell free, the plant snapping beneath him.

With the last of his vision, the Doctor saw the plant shrivelling—blackened and dry, frangible as if it had been sintered in a furnace. It was dying. The disease had taken hold near his groin, where he remained half-hard from the trapped blood, and the vines dropped free of it as he slumped.

Gathering his might, the Doctor sucked in what tiny wisp of breath he could. 

The process seemed to infect every other vine it was touching. His back, contorted into an unnatural arch, finally released itself as the plant fell from his arse, slithering out of him with a fierce sting.

Sluggish, now, the still-living plant pulled back into itself, its little feelers and tendrils involuting to conserve its mass. Oxygen flooded his lungs, blissful and cool, his senses coming back in such a heady rush; grass was greener than before, smells richer, temperature so freshly palpable. He spit out the last of the vine in his mouth. His organs no longer felt so searingly bright.

The Master held himself in a tight, measured grip, more squeezing than stroking. ‘There, Doctor,’ he crooned, crouching at the Doctor’s side. ‘That wasn’t so _hard_ , was it?’

‘What,’ the Doctor rasped, voice torn, muscles, innards. ‘What did you—’

‘I’m afraid this time that _I’ve_ done nothing,’ the Master chuckled, and hissed precipitously. He stilled his hand. ‘That was all your handiwork. I did wonder what was taking you so long; it might have killed you. Perhaps you’ve been suffering some...technical difficulties.’

The Doctor tried to move, but between the remaining coils of vine and his own exhaustion, he could hardly make it to his side. ‘I don’t,’ he licked his cracked lips, tasting blood, ‘I don’t understand, how could you—how _could_ you—’

He was interrupted by movement, curling around his waist, cinching down tight. The plant. He couldn’t, not again, should have _known_ , it was too quick to be stopped, could hardly even be slowed. Ragged, he stared at the Master, stained now with tears and his lip thick with blood, ‘ _Please_ , help me, please help me, please don’t let me die like this.’

‘If you insist,’ the Master hummed, knelt in close, and with three harsh strokes ejaculated over the Doctor’s splayed body.

The effect was instant. The plant withered as if petrified, dessicated and thinning. Death rocketed along the vines, and with one violent writhe, the Doctor shook himself free of them. He scrabbled as far away as his injured body would allow, tearing off his clothes, scrubbing at his skin viciously to rid himself of every last remnant.

‘Explain yourself,’ the Doctor snapped, picking furiously at the back of his hand. ‘Now.’

The Master, smug, wrung the last drops of come from his cock and wiped them on the Doctor’s flank. ‘Grateful as ever, my dear Doctor.’

‘You can’t possibly tell me that your, _our_ …’ the Doctor gesticulated, the effect somewhat reduced by the broad, uncontrollable tremor in his hand.

‘Semen, Doctor,’ the Master explained. He examined a stray bead of it, soaking into the edge of his glove. ‘Full of proteolytic enzymes, acids. Uniquely deadly to this organism. Your prudishness, yet again, will be the death of you.’

Dumbfounded, the Doctor stopped his efforts and stared at him.

The Master licked his glove clean, thoughtful, and came to sit next to the Doctor. He looked at him, no longer hungry, but grimacing with that fond exasperation the Doctor recognised as one of his own emotions.

He smiled at the Doctor. ‘Did you really think I would take advantage of you, Doctor?’

‘I,’ the Doctor said, frowning. ‘You might have _explained_ , you know.’

The Master chuckled and patted him on the thigh, decisively. ‘Come now. You’d have gotten shy.’

**Author's Note:**

> **Full warnings: infinitely replicating plant, tentacles, body horror, skin burrowing, nasal penetration, gum injury, implied/referenced eye gore, mouth stretching, meeting in the middle, anal penetration, anal stretching, prostate stim, plant sounding, smothering, asphyxiation, immobilisation, despair (lots of), forced groping, stripping/exposure, minor blood, gagging, minor CBT, vibrator torment, generally creative torture, jerking off to someone suffering, minor gaslighting.**


End file.
